


Drinking with the Devil

by shambling



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Drinking, Gen, The Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: Crowley invents alcoholic drinks, they're the perfect guise for evil.Or, 5 times Crowley invented a drink and 1 time he didn't.





	1. Messopotamia

**Author's Note:**

> I had the intention to write this as a 5+1, but actually I think it works as 5 little stand alones, +1 at the end.

Messopotamia, 3,900 years ago[1]

 

“Can’t we jussst sit down and talk about thiss?” Crowley flopped onto a nearby rock, warm from the midday sun. Aziraphale, eyed him with great suspicion, the kind that only comes with nearly 4000 years of adversarial dealings. “Have a drink.” The demon offers, waving at the container next to him. Aziraphale, naturally, does neither. “We’re immortal beings Crowley, I don’t need to drink.”

 

This made Crowley laugh. At least, if anyone were to ask that’s what he’d say the hissing sound was. “Yess, but I think you’ll like this one. I’ve just invented it. I call it beer.” Aziraphale merely raised an eyebrow in response, so Crowley drank some of his new invention on his own and felt even more pleased with himself. “Look,” he says, in the; would be reasonable tone of small children through the centuries explaining why they shouldn’t have to go to bed yet. “We’ve been at it for nearly 4000 years now. Surely we could come to some kind of arrangement?”[2]

“Do a deal with the devil? What do you take me for Crowley.” Aziraphale retorted primly, still standing, although in truth he’d’ve quite like to sit down. Crowley drank some more of the beer, pulled a face and laughed. “Not a deal as such Angel, I just thought that maybe we could agree to stop discorporating one another, you wouldn’t _believe_ the paperwork down there.”

“Oh I would. I really would.” Retorted Aziraphale, deciding that sitting next to his longtime adversary maybe wouldn’t be so awful. “Decades it can take, and all the explanations, especially when really you just want the same model again.”

“And all that time without a proper corporeal shape.” Agreed Crowley, “I’m just not that fond of the hellfire and maggots business. Messy.” Aziraphale made a small noise indicating something along the lines of understanding but not actually, and not quite entirely agreement.[3]

 

“So what you’re suggesting is we should agree to, _stop_ discorporating one another?”

“Give or take, it would mean we could both concentrate on just getting on with our jobs, and less time spent explaining to management what I’ve done with a perfectly good body again. It takes ages to get them just right.” That time, the noise Aziraphale made actually was agreement. The first nail in the coffin of adversarial dealings, although they didn’t know it yet. “Ssshake?” Crowley offers one palm, and sticks the other one up in view. Reasonably confident that the Angel won’t double cross like he would. It’s just not in angelic nature.

 

They shake. It begins.

“Now, can I please tempt you to try some of my invention? You’ll like it.” Aziraphale gives him an understandably dodgy look. “Beer you said you called it? And whats wrong with water?” Crowley grins and preens a little.[4]

 

“This,” He began with a flourish, “Is made from fermented grains. It gets the humans into a state of intoxication, where they make poor decisions and upset each other. But,” and this is the bit he’d been really proud of, “they find it tremendously enjoyable. Their very brains trick them into thinking that more of it will lead to a continued state of relaxation and happiness, when what it actually does is make them confused and maybe a little aggressive. And the best bit of all, is if you stop drinking it for a time, it makes you feel wretchedly unwell. The kind of unwell that makes you take it out on everything around you and wonder what you’ve done to upset your god. All those souls, getting a tiny tarnish. Also, its cleaner than the unfiltered waters so if they carry on at this rate its going to be the safest thing there is to drink soon.” Crowley smiled a wide smile, one with slightly too many teeth. “Oh and it tastes really quite unpleasant.” He added, as a final piece de resistance[5]

 

“You’re really selling it Demon.” Said Aziraphale, drily. “Although I suppose the fact that we can miracle away the ill effects must rather negate that element.” Crowley nodded enthusiastically, and handed over the container. “Try some, I’ve got a feeling its doing to be really big.”

 

[1] Approximately

[2] An arrangement, not The Arrangement, which would be at least another 1000 or so years in the making.

[3] The noise you make when a well meaning relative says something that’s actually a bit racist but in a well meaning way, like the grandmother who insistently refers to “the nice coloured gentleman” next door

[4] Metaphorically

[5] Not that he would’ve called it that, the actual term being some hundreds of years away from cofidication


	2. Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome, a few glasses of wine, and an idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure this actually matches up to the canonical birth of "the arrangement" but shhh

Italy (Rome) 1,900 years ago[1]

 

“Aziraphale!”

“Crowley?”

“Wh’t you doin’ ‘ere!?”

“Crowley are you drunk? And, I could ask the same of you dear boy.”

“Yes! Management! Yes.” Crowley was really, impressively drunk. He liked the Romans, not only had they adopted wine (another one of his) with great aplomb, they were also extremely into living well, and also paganism. His kind of people.

“Crowley are you going to sober up? Or am I going to have to meet you on your level? _Again._ ”

“Lessss doboth.” Crowley offered, and braced himself with a wince as all the alcohol left his system at once. “Ouch.”

“It’s entirely your own fault Crowley. Now, shall we find a bottle and a table and talk about this like civilized beings?” Crowley nodded, and miraculously a quiet corner with two couches was free for them to drape themselves across.

 

Some time later[2], both of them were drunk, but pleasantly so.

 

“So you’re telling me, that you keep being sent to wherever I am to try and counterbalance the good, and I keep being sent to wherever you are to try and counterbalance the evil?” Aziraphale was desperate to try and wrap his head around it, but he wasn’t entirely sure the wine had helped him. “Exactly!” Crowley said, with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. “’S why Rome is sso nice, you sssee. It’s got wine and paganism, but its also got architecture and theatre.”

“Right.”

“It’s a waste of time really. I could’ve put the theatre and the architecture in whilst I was here. Ssseems silly for us to both have to be here to create a net neutrality.” Aziraphale knew then that he was drunk, because the demon was actually making some kind of sense.

“Are you actually trying to suggest what I think you’re suggesting?” He asked. An impressively long sentence for someone seeing double.

“That dependsssss on what you think I’m ssugestssting.” Crowley slurred back, waggling an eyebrow in what he thought was a suggestive manner. When in Rome after all.[3]”

“Goodness.” Said Aziraphale, staring thoughtfully into a wine glass that refilled itself as he stared. “I rather thought you were suggesting we could just, stay out of one another’s way a bit.” Crowley gave the angel one of his too wide smiles. The one with all the teeth. “Oh no Angel, it’s a better idea than that.”

 

*

 

In the morning, Crowley set off for Greece, ready to spread enlightenment and Christianity but also to try and convince them to start off another war, or at the least to get on with Mathematics. Aziraphale stayed in Italy, with a promise to continue prodding the human race into its unutterable petty stupidity, as well as the refine the concept of underfloor heating.

 

It only made sense after all.  


 

[1] Approximately

[2] Time, is of course, entirely relative, but in this instance had only been about 4 hours. The relativity of time is linked, more thoroughly than most would like to acknowledge, to age. If you are less than a year old, then a week is perhaps as much as a tenth of your entire life so far. If you’re 5, then an entire year is still a 5th of your life, and so the idea of not seeing a friend for a whole week is impossibly long. Keep moving it up and when you’re 50, it’s a 50th, and so you might comfortably go a week without seeing your lover and not feel the sting quite so greatly. Now imagine that you’re immortal, impossibly old, destined to go on forever. It takes 4 hours just to get the opening pleasantries out of the way. To bastardise a Mr D. Adams. You might think a year is a long time, but that’s just peanuts to eternity.

[3] Quite literally.


	3. Scotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whisky on the ridge as our heroes consider the implications of a french treaty

Scotland, 500 Years Ago[1]

 

The Arrangement has been going well. If pressed, and if the other was assured to be out of earshot, both Aziraphale and Crowley might agree that it was infact more like a friendship, or a partnership, at that stage. Just don’t let anyone hear you saying.

 

“You’re quite sure that was nothing to do with you?” Said Aziraphale, from their perch atop a high hill. He sounded slightly unwell, and looked grey. Or maybe that was just the pale light of morning. “No.” Said Crowley, who looked equally ashen. He began patting himself down. “Not unless you count the formation of the “auld alliance” but that’s arguably all James’ fault. _I_ only said it would be a hilarious way to annoy the English.” He patted his doublet and withdrew a bottle, removed to cork and drank deeply, before handing the bottle to Aziraphale.

 

The Angel did the same, and then winced and coughed sharply. “What did you say this was again?”

“I didn’t. It’s whisky.”[2]

“Hmmm. It’s horrible.”

“Isn’t it?” Crowley smiled a mirthless little smile, “I invented it when I got up for the lavatory at the beginning of the last century.[3] It’s even more horrible and even more potent than beer. Gets you drunk twice as fast and you can feel like you’re removed all your nostril hairs at the same time.” He had been genuinely quite proud of it at the time. He had great plans for it too. A spelling confusion and maybe an entire macho culture over how to drink it correctly. He hadn’t decided yet which he preferred.

 

Aziraphale took another strengthening swig and offered the bottle back to Crowley. “There’s some still alive down there. I’m off to see what I can do.” He squared his shoulders, like a solider, ready for battle.

“I’ll come too.” Crowley said suddenly, convulsively. “The quicker we’re done the quicker we can get back to Edinburgh and get black out drunk.”

“My thoughts entirely.”

 

Angel and Demon walked side by side down the ridge to the marshes of the Coldstream.

 

 

[1] Approximately

[2] Subtly different or perhaps entirely indistinguishable from Whiskey, take your pick

[3] Like when you’re working from home, and you reply to an email every so often in order to keep up the pretense of being every bit as applied as you would be in the office, showing that you’re absolutely not doing the washing and maybe playing video games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you not up on your Scottish history, this is the morning after the Battle of Flodden. 12,000 dead on both sides. 
> 
> I wanted desperately to give Whisk(e)y to Crowley as an invention, its right up his street, but canonically he was fast asleep around the time of its invention. I'm choosing to assume it existed before its first written record in Scotland placing it in 1495. Maybe it took a few years to gain popularity. 
> 
> I also wanted to make this more amusing and light, but instead I ah, tied it to Flodden.


	4. Spain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a cocktail bar in Barcelona, Crowley tries his level best to embarrass everyone in the vicinity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strictly speaking cocktails have been around since 1806, and Sex on the Beach isn't invented until the 80's. Canonically Crowley has been drinking cocktails since biblical times, so hang me.

Spain, 100 years ago[1]

 

 

“And you see, that’s what’s so clever.” They were drunk, just for a change, and Crowley was explaining his latest and proudest creation to date. “They’re really delicious, so they don’t even taste like drinking, but they take ages to make, and annoy everyone behind you in the bar queue. And they’re over priced. AND.” He flourished his hand, “the piece de resistance[2] is that most of them have really, _really,_ silly names. “

 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and sipped the confection in front of him. It was a vaguely pink colour, and tasted of fruit, but he was also aware that the more of it he drank, the more he was having to concentrate quite hard on stopping the room spinning. “What’s this one called then?”

“Sex on the beach.” Said Crowley, smoothly,[3] and Aziraphale coughed and inhaled some of it. “Crowley!” He hissed, looking around, horrified.

“Told you they had silly names.” Crowley said, smiling with pleasure. “This ones called a Woo Woo.” He sipped it, somehow managing to look dignified, even as the paper umbrella tried to poke him in the eye.

 

“And you invented these did you?” Aziraphale asked, looking contemplatively into the bottom of his glass, and chasing a piece of fruit around with the paper umbrella. “Aren’t you impressed?” Crowley asked. “I’ve been perfecting them since the 1800’s in my spare time.”

“A perfect use of your time I’m sure.” Aziraphale picked up the menu and flagged down the bar tender. “What would you like this time Crowley?”

“Hop, Skip and Go Naked please.[4]”

“One, ah, yes, and a…” He perused the menu for something he thought he might be able to say without choking. “Ah yes.” It was Aziraphale’s turn to smile wolfishly at Crowley. “A Short Trip Down to Hell Please.”

 

*

Royally drunk (again) the two swayed merrily out of the door and onto la rambla. “Lesss go to the beach.” Crowley said with enthusiasm, holding tight to Aziraphale’s sleeve to stay upright. He pointed, but not with any direction, and suddenly they were there. “Occult!” He announced enthusiastically to the sea, “No other way to travel!” He flung his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and promptly pushed him over.

 

The two sprawled in the sand, Aziraphale pinned beneath Crowley. “Thisss, gives me an idea for another cocktail name.” Crowley beamed,

“You’ve already got one called sex on the beach.” Aziraphale muttered into his shoulder, but without much complaint. “Noooo.” Crowley replied firmly, finding Aziraphales face so he could press their foreheads together. “y’ being obtuse. Gonna make a new one and call it a Fallen Angel.”

 

Aziraphale groaned.

 

[1] Approximately

[2] The phrase now being an established part of the lexicon

[3] It should be noted that, to date, Crowley is the only being in history ever to have ordered one without smirking or giggling at the name. An achievement.

[4] Crowley was also the only being ever to order this without so much as a smile. Later, he would go on to order a sand in the crack, followed by a slippery nipple without so much as turning a hair. Aziraphale on the other hand, nearly discoporated from second hand embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This was actually the first idea I had. Crowley and Aziraphael in a bar, and Crowley explaining Cocktails (capital C) with great delight. It's set in Boadas Cocktails, which is allegedly the oldest cocktail bar in Barcelona.
> 
> 2\. All the cocktails referenced in this are real, should you fancy trying them they are as follows:
> 
> Sex on the Beach - Vodka, Peach Schnapps, Orange Juice, Cranberry Juice, dash of Lemon Juice and a fresh or a maraschino cherry*  
> Woo Woo - Vodka, Peach Schnapps and Cranberry  
> Hop Skip and Go Naked - Lemon Vodka, Grapefruit Juice, Sugar Syrup and... Beer.  
> Short Trip Down to Hell - Peach Schnapps, Wild Berry Schnapps, Strawberry Schnapps, Jagermeister and Redbull, this marks another cocktail that you couldn't make before 1984 but the name was too perfect not to use  
> Sand in the Crack - Malibu Coconut rum, Captain Morgan Rum, Pineapple Juice and Cranberry Juice. Probably also anachronistic
> 
>  
> 
> 3\. Fallen Angel - This is a real cocktail! I found two recipes for it online, but the recipe that most places seem to agree on is as follows:  
> Gin, Green Creme de Menthe, Sugar Syrup and Bitters. 
> 
> It sounds, absolutely horrible, it almost certainly looks fabulous.
> 
> The other recipe calls for: citrus rum, triple sec, cranberry juice and sparkling white wine. It sounds more palatable. 
> 
>  
> 
> *For those interested, a Sex on the Beach was allegedly invented to sell peach schnapps, allegedly also it was named because sex and the beach, were what people came to Florida for. There is however a recipe that appears to predate this by at least 5 years, and it appears to combine a Cape Codder with a Fuzzy Navel. Either way, it was invented, some time in the 80's.


	5. America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes Aziraphale to Studio 54, in order to show off his latest, and proudest invention, the shot.

America, 30 years ago[1]

 

“Crowley my dear boy I really don’t want to go to a discothèque with you.” Aziraphale is sitting calmly in the corner of the hotel room whilst Crowley dances around the bed to the radio. “Oh but Angel.” He crooned. There’s so many wiles you could thwart! And also, I just have to show you my latest creation in the wild! You’ll like it, I promise.” He crossed his fingers behind his back. Aziraphale gave the demon a look over the top of his book. “I might’ve known you had an ulterior motive for joining me on this trip Crowley. Other than to show me the whole business with the phone line.”

“Come ooooon.” Crowley threw himself down on the bed and gave Aziraphale his most appealing and tempting look over the rim of his sunglasses. “For me?”[2]

 

“Fine.” Said Aziraphale after a long pause, carefully replacing his bookmark and putting the book to one side. “Where is it you want me to go?”

 

*

Crowley swanned past the queue and into the club, sweeping Aziraphale along in his wake. “Was that Faye Dunaway?[3]”

“Probably,” said Crowley smoothly, guiding Aziraphale into a nearby booth where the music was quieter. “Sit tight there, I’ll be back with drinks in a moment. Elton! Hi, great to see you.” And with that, Crowley had melted into the crowd, leaving Aziraphale alone, fidgeting with his shirt collar and watching the clientele. He opted to concentrate on Faye Dunaway, who experienced a moment of great, beatific joy in all gods creation, which she promptly put down to the night she was having. It was worth a try at least.

 

By the time Crowley got back to the table with a tray, covered in brightly coloured tiny glasses, Aziraphale was radiating goodness like a 2 bar fire.[4] “I call these, shots!” Crowley said proudly, with the air of one cradling a baby in his arms.[5] “Although the Americans are insisting on calling them shooters.” He added, shooting a sour look over his shoulder at the barman, who didn’t notice in any way.

 

“And what do these “shots” do?” Aziraphale asked, like an adult trying to understand a childs game. “They’re like cocktails but smaller and stronger.” Crowley said, succinctly. “They get you inadvisably drunk, really fast, lots of them have silly names, and they’re stupid colours. This ones blue.” This last bit he said with great pride, as though it wasn’t already obvious.

“What does it taste of?” Aziraphale asked, not entirely expecting an answer.

“Blue.” Replied Crowley, and knocked one back. “Come on, lets finish these and we can dance.”

 

Angels do not of course, dance, but Angels who split a tray of shots, and then knockback two tequila sunrises in quick succession can be tempted to at least, flail vaguely on the dance floor, giving off an air of such pure goodness and enthusiasm, that no-one even thought to laugh at him.[6]

 

[1] Approximately

[2] Against all that is sensible, if not logical, no-one could give puppy dog eyes like Crowley, despite the snake pupils that didn’t necessarily lend themselves to heart melting. Perhaps it was just that Aziraphale was easily swayed.

[3] One of the only modern actors or actresses Aziraphale could possibly have put a name to, being rather a fan of literary adaptaions

[4] Extremely intensely, but unfortunately, only in about a 2 foot radius.

[5] Much like a baby, shots can bring you a great deal of joy but also lead to you being covered in someone else’s sick.

[6] Much


	6. England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (+1) Dry January

England, 5 years ago[1]

 

“Dry January.” Crowley said, as clearly and as calmly as he could. “Dry January Aziraphale. Dry. January.”

 

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale replied gaily. “Marvellous idea isn’t it? I got it from you.” Crowley merely spluttered, Aziraphale sipped his tea and smiled his most irritating, car salesman grin. “After all, if drinking alcohol causes all these tiny little bruises to the soul, then I got to wondering whether not drinking might cause a tiny little shine, a wave of low grade goodness as it were. You’ve got to think big nowadays after all. Haven’t you?”[2]

 

“Really though Angel.” Crowley finally replied, finding his voice from somewhere, “You of all people,” Aziraphale cut him off. “Oh not for me dear boy. Just for the human beings. No, I’ve got a rather nice bottle of brandy back at the shop that I was hoping you’d come and help me with.”

 

Crowley let out a breath he hadn’t entirely realized he’d been holding.

 

“You bastard.” He smiled affectionately. “It would be my pleasure.”

 

[1] Approximately

[2] In the spirit of the arrangement, this also irritated a vast number of people across the country, re-centering the great cosmic balancing act


End file.
